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User blog:Squibstress/Come Autumn, Sae Pensive (1967) - Chapter 15
Title: Come Autumn, Sae Pensive (1967) Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; character death Published: 02/06/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Fifteen “Muggles ’ave been transfusing blood for more zan one hundred years, quite successfully,” Jean-Baptiste was saying. “It is only experimental to us because we look down on Muggle medicine, even when it ’as proved successful.” Poppy admired the calm way he had been explaining the rationale for the unorthodox procedure she hoped might save Minerva’s life. His calmness was one of the things that attracted her to this wizard; he always made her feel that everything was under control, even when all outward signs pointed to the opposite conclusion. After the explosive relationship she had had with Marek, her former husband, calmness and control were attributes she very much appreciated. When she and Jean-Baptiste had first suggested blood transfusion to Pye and Burgess—whom Pye had called in to consult once again—the Healers were more than sceptical, but to their credit, Poppy thought, they were willing to listen. Pye, especially, did not seem to hold Muggle medicine in the automatic contempt that so many Healers seemed to. “Yes, but magical blood has properties that don’t exist in Muggle blood,” Healer Burgess said. “We just don’t know what negative effects such a procedure might have, especially given that the patient comes from a pure-blood family.” “True,” replied Jean-Baptiste. “But zose properties are related to ze individual’s magic, not to ze physiological functions of blood. Any effects would probably be limited to ze patient’s magical abilities.” “That could have profound effects on the patient,” said Pye. “Of course,” said Poppy, “but dying has even profounder effects.” She immediately regretted her tone, but she was so drained by the events of the past days that she was having trouble keeping her emotions in check. “Perhaps it would be best at this point to bring Albus—Professor Dumbledore—into the discussion. Not only is it his wife we are talking about, but he has more experience of Dark Magic than any of us does, and that is, after all, what we are talking about when we talk about the exchange of magical blood,” said Healer Burgess. She did not like skirting around what she considered the central issue. “I think that’s wise,” said Poppy. The group filed quietly into Minerva’s room, where they found Albus sitting at his post, holding one of his wife’s hands in his. Poppy leant down to him and whispered, “Albus, there’s something we’d like to discuss with you.” The exhausted wizard stood and joined the small group that had gathered in the corner of the room. “Professor Dumbledore,” Pye started, feeling that as Minerva’s chief Healer, he should lead the discussion, “Madam Pomfrey and Mr …” he searched for the name for a moment, “… Martel have come up with an idea for treating Mrs Dumbledore. It might allow us to bring up her fibrinogen levels—which she desperately needs—without overloading her with blood components that could worsen her condition.” “Yes, go on,” said Albus, his impatience evident in his voice. “It is somewhat … unorthodox. So we wanted your opinion on the matter before deciding whether or not to proceed,” Pye said. “My opinion? I am no Healer,” said Albus. “Albus,” Cressida said, “we are considering transfusing blood into Minerva from another person.” Albus looked from one face to another in confusion. “I’m not sure I understand.” Jean-Baptiste decided it was time for him to speak. “It is actually quite simple, Professor Dumbledore. We simply take a certain amount of blood from one person, separate out ze components Mrs Dumbledore needs, and convey zose components into ’er bloodstream.” Albus looked at the man for the first time. “I don’t mean to be rude, but who the hell are you?” “Ah, forgive me, Professor,” Jean-Baptiste said. “My name is Jean-Baptiste Martel. I am a ’ealer. I normally live and practise in Paris, but I am ’ere at St Mungo’s on a fellowship. I am studying long-term cell damage in jinx victims. Madam Pomfrey is a friend and told me about Mrs. Dumbledore’s condition. She thought I might ’ave some ideas.” Dumbledore looked at Poppy, who held his gaze. When he turned his regard to Galeneus Pye, however, the young Healer wilted under it and looked down at his fingers rather than meeting it. Finally, Albus turned his attention to Cressida Burgess. “Do you agree with this idea, Cressida?” She spoke cautiously. “It has potential. Apparently, it has been used with great success among the Muggle population for a century.” Jean-Baptiste nodded in agreement, and she continued: “I am concerned that we don’t know what kind of side-effects it might have when applied to magical blood.” “Side-effects?” asked Albus. “Yes. I don’t need to tell you that exchanges of blood have been used in Dark Magic because of the apparent ability of blood to strengthen the magical properties of a spell. We don’t know how or why this happens, so we cannot predict what the effects will be if we infuse a much larger volume of blood than is used in most Dark rituals directly into a patient.” Albus was silent for a few moments. Then he asked, “What will happen if we don’t follow this course of action?” Pye said, “We can’t be sure. She may begin to produce enough fibrinogen on her own, or she may not.” “If she does not?” “Her blood will refuse to clot properly. She could bleed to death,” said Pye. “And do you have any prediction as to which is likely to happen?” Dumbledore asked. “About fifty percent of patients in Mrs Dumbledore’s condition die,” said Cressida. Albus looked at the older Healer, stricken. “Have you ever done it before? Among wizards?” he whispered. Burgess glanced at Pye before answering, “No.” “Albus, Jean-Baptiste saw it done several times when he was in the last Muggle war in France,” said Poppy. “Many times, actually,” said Jean-Baptiste. “You were in the war? The Muggle war?” asked Albus. “Yes. My mother was a Muggle, and I chose to fight to free my country from ze tyranny of ze Muggle dictator,” he said. “My mother’s family was Jewish.” “I see,” said Albus, looking at the man intently. “We are both veterans of war, then.” Martel nodded. It was a failure of wizarding education, he thought, that nobody but Dumbledore seemed to understand the significance of his mother’s heritage. “How does this … blood exchange work, Mr Martel?” Albus asked. “It isn’t really an exchange,” answered Jean-Baptiste. “We would simply remove a few litres of blood from ze donor, separate ze components, and transfer it into Mrs Dumbledore slowly, over a matter of hours.” “Then do it,” said Albus. Poppy gave a sigh of relief. “What equipment do you need, Mr Martel?” asked Pye. “I will need to procure ze equipment from a Muggle ’ospital. It should not take long; I ’ave a friend at ze Royal Free. I will go to ’im now.” As Martel turned to go, Albus took him forcefully by the upper arm, and said, “Save my wife, Mr Martel.” Martel gave a terse nod and disappeared through the door. Pye cleared his throat, as if to reassert his authority, and said, “We need to decide on a donor.” “We will use my blood,” said Albus. Pye said, “It might be advisable to use someone younger; we don’t know what effect the drain will have—” “No. It must be me,” Albus said. “Mr Pye, Professor Dumbledore is quite healthy and very strong, I can assure you,” Poppy said, knowing that Albus would never back down on this. Pye looked at Poppy for a few moments, then acquiesced. “All right.” He crossed back to Minerva’s bed and passed his wand over her, running more tests. Albus spoke quietly to Poppy: “Do you believe this is the right thing to do?” Poppy was taken aback; it was unlike Albus to ask for opinions about any decision he had already taken. She thought for a few moments before answering, asking herself if her inclination to proceed with the transfusion was the result of a rational weighing of the risks and benefits or if it had been born primarily of her desire to do something. It was both, she decided, and she answered him accordingly: “Yes, Albus. I do.” Albus moved back to his chair by Minerva’s bed. He was a man accustomed to making decisions—often grave decisions—and rarely second-guessed himself. He was thorough in weighing all factors before deciding on a course of action, but once taken, he did not tend to re-examine it, except, perhaps, much later, when all the ramifications had become clear. But the essential decisions Albus Dumbledore was accustomed to making generally had to do with the Greater Good, even when they involved the lives of individuals. He did not make them easily, but he never wavered in his duty to do so. He now found himself at sea, confronting, as he was, a series of choices that were so personally consequential. The decision to allow the Healers to remove Minerva’s uterus, and now, to allow them to put his blood in her veins, were too personal, too specific to his love for her to allow him to feel any sort of comfort at having made them. After a little more than an hour, Martel returned with the equipment they needed. Poppy alerted Healers Pye and Burgess, and the small group gathered to begin the procedure. Martel took a large glass bottle, added a small amount of fluid to it from a phial, and connected a rubber tube to a valve at the bottle’s neck. He then attached a large needle to the other end of the tube. “Please ’ave a seat, Professor Dumbledore,” he said, indicating a chair next to him. When Dumbledore was seated, Martel instructed, “Please roll up ze sleeve of your robe. I need to look at your vessels.” Dumbledore did so, and Martel took his arm, gently prodding the large, blue veins near the crook of the older wizard’s elbow with the pads of his fingers. “I am going to puncture a vessel with this needle,” Martel told him,” then I will tape the needle to your arm. It will speed things along if we Levitate your chair to allow the blood to flow down into the bottle.” Dumbledore said, “Proceed, Healer Martel.” The French wizard cleaned a spot on Dumbledore’s arm with a gauze sponge saturated with a brownish-looking liquid and then held the arm steady with one hand while sliding the needle into the vein with the other. After a moment, the tube filled with blood, which then began to trickle into the bottle in a thin, crimson stream. Martel nodded in satisfaction, then taped the needle to Dumbledore’s arm. He took his wand and Levitated the chair about four feet from the ground. “‘Ow are you feeling, Professor?” he asked. “Fine, thank you,” answered Dumbledore. “You will let me know if you begin to feel dizzy, yes?” “Yes.” Albus closed his eyes. He was not worried about the associations blood had with Dark Magic; he knew that intention, not medium, was the deciding factor in whether a spell was Dark or Light, and he hoped the same would be true of non-magical healing arts. All his intention was focused on strength and healing for Minerva. He visualised her as the bright, vibrant girl she had been when he first knew her, and as the confident, powerful woman she had become in the years since. He thought about the power he had sensed in her the first time she attempted a spell in his Transfiguration class, and the way it seemed to produce a hum inside his head as he stood near her while she cast. He willed his power into his blood, hoping it would sustain and nourish hers. An hour later, Martel had removed six hundred millilitres of blood to two bottles. Albus was made to lie down on a bed conjured next to Minerva’s, and Pye gave him a dose of strong Blood-Replenishing Potion. Meanwhile, Martel set about separating the blood using a curious instrument he had brought with him. He performed only two magical spells: the first to enlarge the machine, and the second to power it. Once he was satisfied that the plasma was separated from the red cells, he, Poppy, and Healer Burgess—the two witches working under his direction—transferred the yellowish fluid from the phials in which it had been contained into two new glass bottles. He approached Dumbledore, saying, “Professor, I am going to begin the infusion now.” Albus rose from his bed and took his previous seat next to Minerva’s. Martel conjured a large pole with a hook at the top and set it on the other side of the bed. He then attached another rubber tube to the flange on the bottle and clamped it to prevent the precious fluid from leaking out. He removed a small syringe—a very curious-looking item, the others thought—from his robe pocket and screwed a large needle to the end, then he nodded at Poppy. She gently took Minerva’s arm and cleaned it with the brown fluid, as she had seen Jean-Baptiste do with Albus. Martel inserted the needle into Minerva’s arm and drew back on the plunger of the syringe until he saw the flash of bright-red blood in the chamber. He quickly unscrewed the needle from the syringe, holding it in place in Minerva’s arm, and took the end of the rubber tube, screwing it onto the needle in place of the syringe. He stood and hung the bottle of plasma on the conjured pole. “How long will it be until we know if it has worked?” asked Albus. “The infusion will take about two hours. After that, it will depend upon how quickly ’er body begins to clot properly. We should know in a few hours after the infusion,” replied Martel. “May I touch her?” Albus asked, making Poppy’s heart constrict painfully. “Yes, of course,” said Martel. He gestured to the others, and said, “We will leave you in peace for the moment. I will be back to check on ’er in fifteen minutes.” Albus nodded, and the four others left the room. Albus sat, Minerva’s hand resting on his, his thumb making soft circles on the back of it. He watched as the plasma slowly drained from the bottle, willing it to provide his beloved with strength and life. He said nothing when Jean-Baptiste and Pye returned periodically to check on Minerva, nor when they changed the now-empty bottle for the second one. When the second bottle had emptied its contents into Minerva’s veins, Martel removed the needle from her arm and cast a quick spell to seal the puncture. Pye ran a series of diagnostic spells while Martel worked. “Her fibrinogen is up, which is very good news,” the young Healer said. “Hopefully, it will allow her to begin to clot enough to stop the cascade effect of the DIC, and she will continue to produce clotting factors on her own. I’ll check again in an hour.” Shortly after that, Poppy came into the room with a tray of food. “It’s steak-and-kidney pie,” she said, moving a small table next to Albus’s chair. “You need to eat. You also need to rest soon,” she said, putting a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you have a lie-down on the bed again. You’ll hear Minerva if she wakes, I’m sure.” “Thank you, Poppy,” Albus said. “For everything.” He added, “Your Mr Martel seems most competent. I should like to get to know him better when all this is over.” “He’s quite an extraordinary man. I’m sure he would welcome the chance to become better acquainted with you and Minerva. He’s heard a great deal about you both, after all,” she said. “I’m going to Floo back to Hogwarts for a bit. I’ll check back here in a few hours unless something changes before then. I’ve asked Healer Pye to have me called if that’s the case.” After Poppy left, Albus slowly consumed the pastry she had brought, without really tasting it. When he had finished, he Banished the tray to a side table and retook Minerva’s hand. He brought his lips down to kiss the pale, cold skin of her forehead and took up his vigil once again. ← Back to Chapter 14 On to Chapter 16→ Category:Chapters of Come Autumn, Sae Pensive (1967)